


lightning, thunder, and you

by Ceryna



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Brief injury mention, M/M, Mild Innuendo, allusions to many Marvel characters, also Thor: Ragnarok references, more ships if u squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:13:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25008247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceryna/pseuds/Ceryna
Summary: Atsumu twirls the eyeliner pen between his fingers, pops the cap off and swipes charcoal ink over his lower waterline. The spell on the liner keeps it from dripping into his eyes, and as he withdraws the pen to mirror the mark beneath his left eye, completing the frame around the gold of his eyes – he starts to believe he really is the god of thunder.Inspired bythis artby @andraste_ on Twitter.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 14
Kudos: 111





	lightning, thunder, and you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bastigod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastigod/gifts), [pseudoanalytics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudoanalytics/gifts).



> i said i was gonna write something for this, but i didn't know it would end up being 4k+. I galaxy brained this idea by borrowing inspiration from Basti's wonderful artwork, some conversations with Quip, and smashing the concepts together in a pre-established magic au of my own design. please take these self-indulgent shenanigans.
> 
> Thank you to Siren for the beta seal of approval!! 
> 
> Basti, dear. You're a gift!! Thank you for the brainworms and inspiration, for taking up space in my brain bog and my heart. I had so much fun writing this, and am so happy to finally share it with you. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Quip~ so glad to have you as a friend!! Hope you like this readaptation of some of your brainworms. The brain bog thanks you for your kind donations and care. Here's this, please enjoy!
> 
> And finally, to my readers - thank you so much for being here and cheering me on. 2020 feels like my best year of writing yet - I'm excited to share this and many future projects with you as well! Hope you have as much fun reading this fic as I did writing it.
> 
> Edit 07/29/2020: now with [art](https://twitter.com/YORUUSS/status/1288657420986847232) by [@YORUUSS](https://twitter.com/YORUUSS) on Twitter!!

The sword is heavy in Atsumu’s hand. Charmed steel forms a fine point, gleaming cerulean under the lamplight before he slips it into the sheath at his hip. 

His armor, for the most part, is black. It doesn’t gleam – instead fashioned from shadow itself, bound by runes into leather and synthetic metals. The chestplate stretches as he breathes, and wristguards adorn his forearms, fabric banding over the skin beneath his elbow. He runs his thumb over the leather band crossing from his left shoulder to under his right arm. His belt sits slightly askew over his hips – he frowns at his reflection and shifts the metal buckle further off-center. 

He twirls the eyeliner pen between his fingers, pops the cap off and swipes charcoal ink over his lower waterline. The spell on the liner keeps it from dripping into his eyes, and as he withdraws the pen to mirror the mark beneath his left eye, completing the frame around the gold of his eyes – he starts to believe he really is the god of thunder. 

“Ya ready yet?” ‘Samu calls through the closed bathroom door. “S’not gettin’ any earlier.” 

“Almos’!” Atsumu twines his fingers through his hair, carding through the strands and twists the end of the tiny braid between his fingers, letting it fall back against his shoulder – opposite the artful scraps of a maroon cape dangling from his left.

He gives his reflection another once over, adjusting the tourmaline of his shoulder plate just slightly before smirking and opening the door. 

Osamu blocks the doorway with one hand. His armor is plated emerald and black, also non-reflective. A dagger is clutched in his wrist – a flick of the joint brings the back of the blade to hover over Atsumu’s jugular as he grins, menacing – but keeps his gaze innocent. “I shoul’ stab ya for ‘get help,’” he drawls, waving his other hand to flutter the pine green cape over his shoulder. 

“I don’ think I asked ya or Sunarin fer help,” Atsumu retorts, unsheathing his sword in a fluid movement and flashing the blade up to meet a hair’s breadth above the dagger hilt. 

Suna vaults over the banister, sidling up behind Osamu. His boots thud along the floor of the apartment, silver armor shining against the turquoise of his own cape. Gold accents glint along the chestplate and shoulders, casting glare into Atsumu’s eyes. “Looks like you could still use it, though.” He leans over the arm that blocks the doorway, curling his fingertips as he mutters a spell under his breath.

Atsumu can feel the ink along his eyelids curl, smoothing and sharpening until Suna lets the spell fade. He sticks his head back in the bathroom, glimpsing his reflection in the mirror – and fights to keep his eyebrows from rising in surprise at the small, but noticeable improvement. 

But he doesn’t bother voicing his thanks. The smirk on Suna’s face is a wordless “told you so,” and as he catches Osamu’s eye, it softens into a smile.

Atsumu ducks under the arm so he doesn’t have to read the words behind _that._ “How’re we gettin’ ta Shouyou’s?” He flips off the lightswitch, meandering down the hall to the kitchen – a box of six bottles of shochu, free of all enchantments, was graciously provided by Kita. He’ll be joining them later – in full costume, he promised. 

“Tha bifrost. Obviously.” ‘Samu rolls his eyes – years of living with him has meant Atsumu can hear this even when he’s across the house. 

Atsumu tucks the box under his arm and strides back up the hall. The sword hilt jumps on his opposite hip – as with any magical celebration, faces may be false, but props might just be real. Shouyou’s guild promotion party is a gathering of friends, so all the shielding spells stay on. No one will get physically hurt by the blades.

If anyone gets drunk enough to stub their toe on bathroom tile and plummet headfirst into the shower, well, that’s on them. Atsumu will be doing his damndest to avoid a concussion this time.

Suna taps his fingers along the sword hilt over his shoulder – and, as Atsumu sidles to a halt by the genkan, he brings his hand down to his side. A flutter of his fingers shuts off all the lights in the house, plunging the three of them into darkness – save for the glow of his irises. He rests one hand on Atsumu’s shoulder plate, the other around Osamu’s elbow – and vanishes them into the shadows.

# ***

The block in front of Shouyou’s apartment is quiet. Well, at least the ground level is – above the fifth floor, where the human residences end and the magical ones begin. Illusions and boundary spells help keep suspicious eyes from prying, as well as noise from stretching beyond the walls. Charms of containment are why it takes Shouyou opening the door to let the music _out_ before any of them realize just how loud it is, and how many people are inside. 

“Atsumu-san!” Shouyou greets, pulling him over the threshold of the apartment and into a hug. “‘Samu-san, Suna-san, you look awesome! C’mon in – is that shochu?” 

“Special delivery from Kita-san,” Atsumu confirms. “Tha kitchen is?”

“I’ll take you.” Shouyou grins, closing the door behind them with a wave of his hand. “Your swords are real?”

Suna nods. 

“The knives are too,” Osamu adds. “Ya have shielding runes fer us?” 

“Not _your_ kinda runes.” Shouyou holds up his index finger, firelight glinting upon his fingertip. He draws a sun insignia in the air, plucks the glyph, and presses it into Atsumu’s palm. 

The magic is quiet, warm – but heavy. It clings to Atsumu’s skin even as the insignia fades – but it leaves the taste of citrus in his mouth, crisp and clean and _safe_ as a barrier shines over his skin.

Shouyou repeats the process for Osamu and Suna. “You probably shielded your weapons, but not everyone does – this’ll keep your body safe from other blades and poisons, at least.”

“Not the alcohol, though?” Suna grins, waving loosely at the box of shochu. 

“Nope!” Shouyou presses a hand to the middle of Atsumu’s back. “Kitchen’s this way,” he says, leading him through the crowd and over into the far corner of the apartment.

Atsumu shouldn’t be as surprised as he is by the number of people in full costume – or rather, finally wandering around without their usual glamour. “Congrats on yer guild placement,” he says to Shouyou, loud enough to be heard over music and murmurs as he unloads the shochu onto the counter.

Shouyou beams. “Thanks, ‘Tsumu-san! I’m excited to run quests with you and Bokkun, maybe Tobio too if he wants!” He pauses then, tilting his head to the side as if he hears something Atsumu can’t – and smiles wide and bright. “Kozume’s here to say hello!” He whoops, curling magic around his hand to summon two shot glasses, and promptly opens a bottle of shochu. 

He pours it over the two floating glasses, filling each to the brim before waving them back to the counter. Atsumu quirks an eyebrow up, fitting his fingertips around the base of his glass, and clinks it against Shouyou’s, tossing back the rice wine. Elemental magic sure has its uses – especially for him.

Lightning crackles over Atsumu’s free hand – he holds it up for Shouyou, who laughs and excuses himself to answer the door.

Atsumu sighs, opens cabinet after cabinet until he finds where Shouyou pulled the glasses from, and pours himself a second shot. The other two glasses are for ‘Samu and Suna, if he can find them – which shouldn’t be all that difficult. But Atsumu won’t bother seeking out Osamu unless he has to. 

So he wanders back out of the kitchen, meandering down the hall until he’s back in the living room. Other guild members are easy enough to pick out – weapons strapped across broad backs, to sheaths at the waist and thigh – well. 

Atsumu sighs. He shouldn’t bother scanning around the room for someone that definitely wouldn’t deal with crowds, but he does anyway. A broad sweep, right to left, then left to right. When he gets back to precisely where he started, Suna is waiting for him.

His irises are glowing again – and he smiles. He doesn’t voice a thank you – instead plucking the shot glasses from Atsumu’s fingers before he dips back into shadow, traveling back to Osamu’s side. 

“Tsum-Tsum!” Bokuto cheers, slinging an arm over Atsumu’s shoulders. His wings are folded tightly against his back, but even in the dim apartment lighting, Atsumu can tell they glow. “How’s your shoulder?”

Atsumu thinks he should be wincing at the memory, but the shochu has hit, so the smile on his face is there to stay. He rolls the joint beneath the shoulder plate through a full rotation. “S’all healed up, now – no thanks ta that rogue yōkai, though.” 

The full details of the bounty request are muddled, but the pain from the claw marks burned like a motherfucker. When the healers were finally able to see him, he had the misfortune of being treated by one Shirabu Kenjirou – instead of the usual, ever-politely blunt Ennoshita Chikara. Shirabu took one look at Atsumu, scowled like the fires of hell were upon him – that, or Atsumu thought Shirabu might’ve just felt inclined to go take a really massive shit. 

But Shirabu reined in that scowl with clinical iciness, and while he narrowed his eyes at what Atsumu had marked on the form – wound cleaning, purification, and sealing, without accelerating through the scarring process and healing it entirely – he did as requested.

“You kept the scar?” Bokuto raises an eyebrow, curiously eager – and Atsumu nods, shrugging his left arm further into the open. The scar lines are thin, but they mark his skin in memory of the risks of guild work – alright, maybe he kept it ‘cause it’s _badass –_ but it’s also ‘cause he knows the risks of magical wounds. 

When people can be brought back from the brink of death, gaping wounds knitting completely shut without sign of scars, external magics mixing with the ones that run in your veins… it’s far too easy to forget decisions you make could cost your own life. That much magic can mess with your mind – convince you you’re invincible. 

As much as Atsumu claims he’s invincible, he’s well aware it’s a lie. His Norse and Japanese heritage have tangled regional magicks in his marrow. He’s spent his life ensuring one doesn’t outwit the other, navigating tripwire after tripwire to discover where his abilities end – and where new ones might begin.

“Enno patched you up?” Bokuto asks, irises shifting as he side-eyes the scar.

Atsumu’s about to shake his head when Akaashi and Tsukishima sidle up on either side of Bokuto. “Looks like Shirabu’s work to me,” Akaashi murmurs with the quiet grace of the Tengu. Tsukishima juts his chin in a nod, the gesture for once not as sharp – though moondust still drips from his fingers as he crosses his arms and tucks them out of sight. 

“It was Shirabu,” Atsumu confirms dryly. He could definitely use another shot of shochu – and doesn’t feel the need to risk saying something that could get back to a descendant of Kannon. While Kannon may be the Goddess of Mercy, Shirabu is _not_ sympathetic to Atsumu. 

So Atsumu excuses himself from the conversation and turns back to where he’s pretty sure the kitchen is. Three minutes ago, he was eighty-two percent certain it was just back down the hall. Now he’s only fifty-three percent sure the kitchen is actually that way – the odds are still slightly in his favor, so off he goes. 

He gets halfway down the hall before realizing that perhaps the shochu was _not_ completely free of enchantments – no, Kita wouldn’t lie. Maybe it’s Shouyou’s shot glasses that are charmed. Either way, it doesn’t particularly matter because he’s found the kitchen _._ There’s a cluster of people near the doorway that Atsumu traipses past – their glamour, or whatever magic they’re using, is palpable enough to make him cough. 

But he fumbles his way back to the familiar oak-tinted brown of the shochu box and lets his reliable, steady hands pour himself another shot. As he knocks it back, though, he spies the sink out of the corner of his eye. Deciding that he does _not_ need a repeat of the skull-meets-shower-tub incident, he figures a fresh glass of water would be welcome. 

So maybe Atsumu has to fumble his way through four sets of cabinets before he finds regular sized cups. Maybe it would’ve been better to have something to eat before he got here – surely Shouyou has pizza or karaage somewhere? And oh, maybe the stream of water missed the cup a few times before Atsumu’s able to fill it part way and sip from it, like a reasonable person. 

But Atsumu doesn’t consider himself known for being reasonable – in fact, it’s usually the opposite. He’s known for taking calculated risks. And sure, he might be terrible at maths, but his guild mission record speaks for itself: since he became a full-fledged Inarizaki guild mage at eighteen, there’s been no lives lost on missions he’s led and no near-death injuries. 

Something rests a weight on his shoulder – the one without the extra armor plate. Even Atsumu’s alcohol-addled mind knows the weight is a hand, and he has enough wits to be sure said hand belongs to a friend. So he stifles the lightning under his skin, coiling it back into his veins where it can simmer in relative safety, and turns – “Kita.”

Kita – in glasses, a slate grey blazer over a white T-shirt and tight black jeans – smiles. He’s also fine-tuned his glamour: adding a slight green tinge to the veins visible beneath his skin. “Ya remembered to drop the _-san.”_

Atsumu thinks Kita may be speaking softer than usual, but that won’t stop him from listening to every word. “I r’membered ta _not_ drop tha wine.” He waves a hand in the general direction of the shochu box. “Ya did say it’s not enchanted?”

“No, it is.” Kita blinks, concern alight in his eyes – but Atsumu swears that Kita’s smile looks far more mischievous than it did a second ago. “It _is_ enchanted. Can’t tell ya how, ‘course – s’nothin’ more than a buzz, though.” 

Atsumu might be holding his breath as Kita’s hand shifts, thumb brushing his armor over his collarbone. 

“Why d’ya ask? Had too much already?”

“Nah,” Atsumu bluffs – and drags himself out of what he counts as Kita’s embrace. “Jus’ think it’s hittin’ a bit fast, s’all. M’gonna go find some air.” At Kita’s quirked eyebrow, Atsumu clarifies. _“Quieter_ air.”

Kita chuckles – and does not flinch as a hand wraps around his waist. He leans, ever so subtly, into the touch. Aran is beside him, in grey jeans and a Black Sabbath T-shirt. As Atsumu turns to put his water cup into Shouyou’s dishwasher, Aran’s outfit flickers with near-imperceptible glamour. Sheens of maroon and gold armor fit to his body in a perfect portrait of the Iron Man suit. 

“Wouldja like some shochu?” Atsumu pries his tongue down from where it sticks to the roof of his mouth to at least _try_ to do the right thing.

Aran smiles and shakes his head. “Not yet. But if you’re looking fer some air, there’s a balcony behind ya.” He points over Atsumu’s shoulder.

Atsumu’s gaze follows the invisible line from that fingertip to a sliding glass door he’d completely overlooked. “Thanks,” he mutters, blinking at the balcony in confusion – and places his shot glass in the sink before heading for the doors. 

His fingers crook into the handhold, and the door gives under a slight shove. Atsumu slides it open just wide enough for him to slip through before closing it behind him. 

The drum of the music fades instantly, along with the sounds of too many conversations overlapping each other. Out here, the night air is crisp – but not completely silent, either. Trains rumble along tracks, the metro shuddering several stories below – but the difference in volume is enough for Atsumu.

Fresh air seeps into his lungs. He braces his hands on the railing, peering out over the Tokyo skyline. 

It’s a lovely city, but it’s not his home. He’ll call it home to keep things simple, but it’s never really felt that way – not when he’s spent half his life in Kobe, which is basically a suburb of Osaka – and the other half in Oslo. And as he lets a sigh escape him, he raises his hands up, up, over the railing and reaches for something far, far away.

Thunder rumbles in his chest. Lightning skitters over his skin, burning a familiar cobalt blue as it zings in a zigzag up his arm and off his fingertips. Aimless, it flickers sharply and vanishes – leaving the air with nothing but the invisible tang of electricity – and a shift of movement in the peripheral of his right eye. 

Atsumu turns his head to chase the movement and feels his jaw drop. 

On the balcony next to this one – which still connects to Shouyou’s apartment – stands someone adorned in carmine and starlit gold. They also wear wristguards, but theirs appear to be made from bronze and steel instead of black shadowbound leather. Long, dark hair cascades in waves over bare shoulders – and a shield is strapped to their back. The look is complete with knee-high golden boots, a short, sapphire pleated skirt, and golden rope that glows at their side – _Wonder Woman._

Whoever they are, they’re _stunning._ And Atsumu is definitely not drunk now, only tipsy as he crosses to the right side of the kitchen balcony and calls over – hopefully not too loudly – “D’ya mind if I join ya?”

The _Wonder Person_ doesn’t turn to face him – but they shake their head.

That’s invitation enough for Atsumu. He gauges the distance between the balconies, hops up to balance his boots on the railing, and springs over the three meter gap – far enough to keep a human at bay, but not enough for the god of thunder. 

He gives no consideration to the distance he might fall, because he won’t. _Falling?_ Never heard of it. But as his hands grasp the railing, anchoring him as he swings his legs over it, boots _thudding_ into concrete – as the person before him turns, ever so slowly, revealing their lovely, _familiar_ face, Atsumu’s heart falls somewhere past his collarbones and into his throat. 

A bronze circlet graces Sakusa’s forehead. The two moles above his right eyebrow are squished closer together as his gaze narrows at Atsumu – who can’t tear his eyes away from Sakusa’s kohl-lined eyes, sakura-tinted cheeks, and his rouge-stained lips – which are on display, for once not hidden behind a mask.

“Omi-Omi,” Atsumu manages. Then he has to pause, ‘cause he’s found different things to say and they’re competing to be said. _I was jus’ wonder-in’ whatcha were doin’ – hehe. Ya serious ‘bout not mindin’ me joinin’ ya?_

But instead of the pun or the question, the words that slip off his tongue are teasing. “Didn’t expec’ ta see ya here – an’ in costume, no less.”

“‘No less’?” One of Sakusa’s eyebrows inches up slightly. He looks indignant, but one corner of his mouth curls up into a smirk that sparks lightning between Atsumu’s ribs. “So you’d rather me be naked.”

_Uh, yeah – wait._ “N-no,” Atsumu stutters out. _Fuck._ “Don’t think ya’d like that, ‘specially since ya go on ‘bout ‘public decency’ an’… stuff.”

“You’re one to talk.” Sakusa crosses his arms over his chest. The gesture pulls Atsumu’s gaze to the neckline of his armor. A bronze bird glints against porcelain skin, the wings forming sharp angles that stretch up to his collarbones – and accent the clusters of moles patterned there.

Sakusa coughs, the sound sharp enough to pull Atsumu’s gaze away. “And _that’s_ why they call you the master of ‘public _indecency’,”_ he scoffs – _scoffs,_ but oh, he’s smiling. 

_Smiling?_ Atsumu rubs his eyes, but clears away nothing – alright, he’s not dreaming. “Well, Wonder Omi?” he drawls, letting his tongue glaze over his lower lip in provocation. “I’ve got eyes. S’there a problem with me usin’ ‘em?” 

“Yes.”

There’s something buried in that word. It cuts deep, stinging – not unlike how that rogue yōkai left marks beneath Atsumu’s skin. Instinct suggests he take a step back – _fuck that._

He steps forward, leaning in far closer than he’s ever been, far closer than Sakusa should be letting him – and can’t resist using himself as bait. He’s done it before and escaped unscathed, and it’s not like Sakusa would bite… 

_Or would he?_

Atsumu blushes, cheeks flaming crimson at that thought. He shuts his eyes, lashes fluttering down until darkness is all he sees – and yet, the image of those red lips over _his_ skin is bright against that darkness. 

“‘Kay. Not usin’ em,” he mutters, holding up his hands – not quite in surrender, but in a semblance of good faith. “What’re ya gonna do ‘bout me?”

_“About_ you?” Sakusa _tsks_ his tongue against his teeth. “No. You don’t get to ask questions.” There’s a shift in the air. Nothing electric, just a breeze – a breeze that flutters a rope around Atsumu’s chest, pinning his biceps to his torso.

While the rope may be spelled to glow, no charm of compulsion has been woven into this lasso of truth. What it does mean, though, is that Sakusa wants him to be truthful… And that might just require Atsumu doing the one thing he finds most challenging. Not hunting down rogue yōkai, not teaming up with strangers for guild bounty requests – _being honest with himself._

“Alrigh’, Omi-Omi.” Atsumu swallows, forcing his heart back into his chest and trying not to flinch at the thunder rumbling there. “Ask me.”

There’s a soft hiss of breath – perhaps a gasp – and a moment of hesitation before Sakusa does just that. “You look at me.” He starts with an obvious statement – quiet and calculating. “You look at me, but don’t _see_ me.” He pauses again, the rope shifts against Atsumu’s chest. Not tightening, not slackening, just Sakusa adjusting his grip. 

“Why don’t you see me.”

It doesn’t sound like a question, but since it’s phrased like one, Atsumu thinks it warrants an answer. “I like lookin’ at ya,” he starts, ‘cause that much is true – then has to pause to collect his words. “But m’not sure ya _let_ yerself be seen, Omi.” 

[“Then _look_ at me.”](https://twitter.com/YORUUSS/status/1288657420986847232)

Atsumu opens his eyes. He has to blink them a few times, to clear away the lingering darkness. _Forget_ the party. _Forget_ the threads of thoughts of his brother or Suna or Kita or anyone else he spoke to tonight. He shoves away remnants of shochu, ignores thoughts of food, overlooks the hemp around his body. And when that darkness fades, Sakusa is the only thing he lets himself see. 

Sakusa drops his glamour for Atsumu. He lets the stars in his skin glow orange, white, and blue, and he _shines._ He’s radiant. Blinding. _Beyond_ gorgeous. He’s what Atsumu has let himself wish for, with the safety of knowing it would never be granted – and yet. _And yet._

Atsumu’s gaze goes glassy against the brilliance. “Omi,” he whispers, and a weak chuckle escapes him while he searches for words. “Had a feelin’ if ya lemme _see_ ya, I wouldn’ be able ta look away.”

“Oh.” Sakusa’s voice is so quiet. He’s barely loud enough to be heard over the echoing pulse in Atsumu’s head. But he dims the starlight down a bit, reaches his hands up, up, letting the lasso slip down to his wrist. “Do you want to look away?”

“Nah.” Atsumu cracks a grin, brushing his fingertips over the star emblem on Sakusa’s circlet. “I wanna keep lookin’ at ya fer s’long as ya let me.” His hands fall back to his sides, fingers curling into the synthetic armor there.

“And if I let you do more than look?”

Atsumu hardly believes this is real. He blinks, considering – he’s fifty-three percent sure it is, so he rolls the dice and offers up another answer. “I thought ya didn’t want me lookin’ – much less anythin’ else.”

At that, Sakusa frowns. But the crease in his brow vanishes, and he folds warm hands on either side of Atsumu’s face. And when he opens his mouth, he mutters words that cloud hotly on Atsumu’s lips in a secret. “I don’t mind if it’s you.” 

And if that isn’t the sweetest thing Atsumu has heard all night. It burns saccharine, headier than the long-forgotten shochu. And maybe Atsumu was never the bait at all.

Maybe he was the one reeled in, thunder-drunk on starlight and promises of what he could have if he just opened his goddamn eyes. And maybe he grins, cheshire wide, and does his damndest to kiss that smile into Kiyoomi’s mouth.

The hands that cup Atsumu’s face slide to the back of his neck, thumbs nestling below his chin as Kiyoomi brings him even closer. The bit of shochu that lingers on Atsumu’s tongue is swept away by the peppermint on Kiyoomi’s. It’s sharp and sweet and tinged with a hint of bitterness – it’s _unfair,_ how long Atsumu had to call Sakusa _Sakusa_ to his face when he was _Kiyoomi_ in his head. 

It’s unfair, how Kiyoomi tastes like Atsumu’s new favorite drink – unfair, how long Kiyoomi has wanted Atsumu to look at him but not hinted at an invitation. 

Atsumu blindly hazards a step back, the armor at his waist hitting the railing with some vaguely metallic sound he doesn’t hear over Kiyoomi groaning into his mouth. He wraps his hands around Kiyoomi’s waist – and when he isn’t reprimanded, slips his fingers lower, lower, over the skirt – then beneath the hem.

Kiyoomi tilts his head, backing out of the kiss and staring Atsumu down with eyes of starlit obsidian. One eyebrow inches up in question.

“Hey,” Atsumu drawls, leaning up to let his teeth skim against Kiyoomi’s bottom lip. “Yer tha one that said I coul’ do more than look.”

“You should save the _more than look-_ ing for later.”

Kiyoomi’s cheeks are pale, but the blush blooming down his neck and over his shoulders is enough for Atsumu to shift his hands away – just in time, too, as lightning glimmers cobalt over his fingers, skittering over the railing. “Oops,” he says with a sheepish smile – and is rewarded tenfold as Kiyoomi returns it.

“I can handle a little lightning,” he murmurs, and lifts a hand up, up, threading his fingers through Atsumu’s trembling ones.

Oh, this is _very_ unfair. This is so unfair that Atsumu can’t think of any word besides _unfair_ to describe how unfair it is. So, in an attempt to be unfair right back, he asks. “How soon is _later?”_

Kiyoomi huffs a laugh. He clasps his fingers tighter around Atsumu’s in promise. 

“Soon.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story (^^)
> 
> comments help fuel my writing! i'd love to know your favorite line, if you like the story and characterization, or if you'd like to see more content like this from me!
> 
> I'm on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/Ceryna_writes)!


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